


Through Those Old Grounds of Memory

by Cinaed



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Femslash, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Past Relationship(s), Reunions, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-09 16:57:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4357082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Brandir suggests celebrating the anniversary of Níniel's first year in Brethil, there are unexpected consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through Those Old Grounds of Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elleth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleth/gifts).



> Elleth, I saw you asked for Finduilas/Nienor fix-it, and I couldn't resist. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> The title comes from Emily Dickinson's poem "Through those old Grounds of memory."

“Let me care for her,” Finduilas said, when Brandir brought Níniel out of the woods.

Brandir assented, hoping that she might know of some way he didn't to restore Níniel’s memories. It proved to be a false hope, for Níniel’s memories seemed lost beyond all recovery, but Finduilas nevertheless found it a comfort to tend to her. With Níniel, she could distract herself from the grief that made her want to waste away and join those she loved in the Halls of Mandos. That urge lessened greatly in Níniel’s company, though the desire lay deep in her heart still.

 _Tear-Maiden_  the Men of Brethil had so named Níniel. It was fitting, for often Níniel fell into strange fits of weeping, trembling at loud noises and flinching at the sudden shadow of a bird’s flight falling upon her face. 

But she grew stronger in Finduilas’s care, and slowly healed in body and mind. Finduilas took pleasure in her smiles, which grew more frequent as time went on, and in her laughter, which was made all the sweeter by its rarity, until she came at last to cherish the strange woman Brandir's men had found naked and terrified in the woods.

 

* * *

 

When Brandir came to Finduilas and told her that it had been almost a year since they had found Níniel, she did not doubt him. Men lived too briefly not to mark the passing days and weeks with such careful precision.

“Should we celebrate?” Brandir asked. He looked to her, his kind features uncertain. “I had thought to treat it like a birthing day, but perhaps she wouldn’t…. You know her better than anyone. Would she welcome such a thing?”

Finduilas thought a while. “Perhaps something small,” she said at last. “She tires easily when there is a crowd around her.”

Brandir smiled. “Very well. Perhaps I shall even coax Turambar from the woods.” 

Finduilas was thankful that he was turning away from her as he spoke, and so missed her flinch. Turambar. Thurin. Adanedhel. Agarwaen son of Úmarth. Túrin. How many names had the son of Húrin collected over the years! As always since Túrin had come to Brethil in search of her, she trembled at the thought of him. She had left her love for him behind in Nargothrond, buried with the dead, but now she pitied him much as she had come to pity Gwindor. She wished Túrin peace and what small measure of happiness he could find.

Túrin remained apart, as though he feared lingering too long in the company of Brandir’s people would bring his curse down upon them. Even Brandir and Finduilas speaking to him together had not swayed him. He visited infrequently, bearing fresh wounds from skirmishes and news of the movement of Morgoth's forces. When he did come to Brethil, he didn't call upon Finduilas, but instead asked of her through Brandir, and sent his well wishes through him. Brandir took his role of messenger with good humour, but Finduilas knew he too worried for Túrin, alone in the woods. 

“Finduilas? Is something wrong?”

Finduilas looked up slowly, half-ensnared by the memory of Túrin kneeling before her and begging her forgiveness, tears spilling down his face. Níniel frowned in concern, her unsmiling look so like Túrin’s that Finduilas half-lowered her gaze, her heart twisting in her chest. For a moment, she couldn't breathe. She struggled to answer. “I am well. It's only that Túrin may come to visit and I,” she said, and then closed her teeth on the rest of her loose speech.

It was already too late, for Níniel’s concern gave way to confusion and something else too, a strained cast to her face. “Túrin?”

Finduilas remembered the gentle concern in Gwindor's weathered features as he'd told her that Adanedhel was in fact Túrin son of Húrin and warned her of the family's curse. He'd been so worried for her. She mourned Gwindor anew, as though he had died but a few days earlier. How he had loved her, and how he had shamed her by being so understanding when her heart turned from him! Grief seized her. She covered her face with her hands, struggling not to weep. Slowly, she said, “It is a long story and one I've no wish to tell. Please don’t make me speak of it.”

“Finduilas,” Níniel said. Her touch was gentle upon Finduilas’s wrists, drawing her hands away so that she might wipe away her tears. “Finduilas,” she said again, and Finduilas heard the frown in her voice. “If this man troubles you so, you must tell Brandir. He will send him away.”

“Send him--” Finduilas laughed helplessly. Níniel had misunderstood. She blinked away the last of her tears. "Oh, no, Níniel, no. Túrin is a good man. Kind, and quick to pity and gentleness, when his pride does not blind him and harden his heart. No, it is Morgoth's curse that troubles me. The Black Hand has all but crushed the line of Húrin, and I sorrow for Túrin and his kin." She tried to smile, but Níniel's face still held that air of strain, and she shuddered as though mention of Morgoth hurt her.

Finduilas tried to shake off her grief, though it weighed upon her like a coat of stone. "Come, let us talk of something else. Did you know it has been nearly a year since you came to us? We will have some small celebration, Brandir says. I suspect we shall enjoy that good wine his men seized from the Easterlings." Seeing that Níniel still did not smile, Finduilas caught her hands in hers and squeezed them, saying, "I am sorry for whatever you suffered before, but I'm glad you are here with me now, Níniel. You've become very dear to me these past twelve months."

Colour rose in Níniel's cheeks and chased some of the shadow from her look. "A year? I...it did not seem so long." She hesitated, and now Finduilas couldn't read her expression, though it didn't seem sorrowful. Another moment longer she stood there, indecisive, and then all in a rush, Níniel said, "You've become dear to me as well, Finduilas." Before Finduilas could do more than smile, Níniel leaned forward and kissed her, lingeringly, on the mouth.

Startled warmth bloomed in Finduilas's stomach. She swayed a little, clutching the folds of Níniel's dress, the fabric rough against her fingers. She wondered at the kiss, and then wondered at her own surprise. She had seen how Níniel looked at her and had pretended not to notice, remembering too well how she had suffered through love not once, but twice, and lost both in different and terrible ways. She'd hoped, selfishly, that it was only a passing fancy and mere gratitude which warmed Níniel's eyes. 

But now Níniel was kissing her, sweet and desperate, and all of Finduilas's sensibilities fled. When Níniel went to break the kiss, Finduilas followed her, kissing the corner of her mouth and laughing a little, half joyous, half despairing. Her heart had not learned its lesson, it seemed. She held Níniel closer, savouring her nearness. "Níniel," she whispered, and felt Níniel shiver at the sound of her name. She closed her eyes as Níniel kissed her again, this one even slower than the first, until Finduilas grew dizzy from it.  

Then, breathless, Níniel said, "It has been a year, you said. A year with no one coming to seek me. I remember nothing of my past, but I don't think it will come prowling out of the woods now. I-I think we are safe, as much as any can be during these dark days." She stroked Finduilas's hair away from her face and smiled so sweetly that Finduilas thought her heart might burst at the sight of it. "My kind Finduilas. Let me stay with you, as we are right now, and be happy."

"I," Finduilas said. Words failed her. She answered Níniel with a kiss, putting all her tremulous joy into it, and didn't let herself think of anything else. 

 

* * *

 

"Look what I have found in the woods," Brandir said with pride, coming towards the table. Túrin was his silent shadow, unshaven and wild-looking, though Finduilas noticed that he took care not to out-pace Brandir, who moved slowly as though his leg pained him more than usual. Still, the suffering couldn't be found in Brandir's smiling face. "Take care, lest you scare him off again." 

Finduilas's breath caught for an instant in her chest as she looked up into Túrin's stern features. For an instant she felt weak, seeing the guilt in his eyes as he gazed upon her. Then she felt Níniel clasp her hand beneath the table, and she rallied at the touch. She smiled and rose to her feet, offering him her hand slowly and speaking gently. "Good evening to you, Turambar. I'm glad Brandir convinced you to visit. It has been too long since I saw you." 

Túrin's brow creased, but after a moment he smiled a little and took her hand, bending over it before he released it and stepped back. "Thank you."

His voice was rough with disuse. She wondered how long it had been since he had spoken to anyone. Pity touched her. Turning a little, she said, "I think you haven't yet met Níniel. Níniel, this is Turambar, who guards the woods against Morgoth's allies and brings Brandir news when he may." She would have said more, but stopped, disquieted by the way Níniel stared at Túrin, her eyes huge in her pale face. 

Unblinking, Níniel said, "You call yourself Turambar. But you are Túrin son of Húrin, and-- and--" She took a deep breath, clutching Finduilas's hand. The room was very quiet, Brandir and the others watching with puzzled amazement, for Níniel's voice was stern and her eyes were wide and fierce and without a hint of tears. "Names are precious things, Túrin. Why have you abandoned the one your mother and father chose for you?"

Túrin stared at her while Brandir's people whispered amongst themselves. He tensed as though to flee, but Níniel seemed to hold him fast. To Finduilas, he grew smaller, the mention of his mother and father stealing a few years from him. For a moment Finduilas thought he wouldn't answer, but then he said, "That name is cursed, my lady, and so I have thrown it away in hopes of defying that ill fate. Please, forget you ever heard that name and call me Turambar instead." 

Níniel's mouth trembled. She rose to her feet, and Finduilas saw that she was nearly of a height to Túrin. "No. You cannot throw your name away because you dislike it, or else I would have begged a new name from Finduilas a long time ago, something with a less sorrowful meaning. Túrin, your mother called you, and Túrin you shall be." 

"Who are you to speak to me so?" Túrin asked, not in anger, but bewilderment. His face was younger still in his confusion. "I know you not, and yet you give me orders as though you were my mother. But you're young, and Lady Morwen is dark where you are fair, and--"

"Morwen!" 

Níniel cried out the name, and all were silent. She let go of Finduilas, raising her arm as though reaching for something. She laughed wildly, a queer mixture of pain and triumph in her voice. "O Morwen!" Then she swooned, heavily and without warning, falling against Finduilas. 

Unprepared, Finduilas would have fallen with her, if Túrin hadn’t reached out and kept them both upright. “Níniel,” she said, looking at that deathly pale face. Panic rose up in her, and she was back in Nargothrond, watching the city burn, knowing that her family was dead. She held Níniel close, kissing her cold cheek. “ _Níniel_!”

Brandir snapped out an order, and Níniel was carried close to the fireplace, Finduilas refusing to release Níniel and helping to lower her on to the furs that Túrin spread on the floor. There Finduilas crouched, clasping Níniel to her chest, sick with fear and uncaring of the looks her actions earned her. She stroked Níniel's cheek, murmuring her name again.  

Brandir’s gaze met hers. Something flickered across his face, a sympathetic look. “I’ll fetch some medicine,” he said, and then hesitated as Níniel stirred.

When she opened her grey eyes, she stared as though surrounded by strangers. Her brow creased. Then she looked up at Túrin, who knelt before her, and frowned. She said haltingly, almost a reproach, “We came to Nargothrond to find you, but it was all ruins and you weren’t there. The dragon was instead. He said-- but I didn't believe him. Where did you go, Túrin, when the dragon laid waste to that city?”

Túrin, still staring, a terrible hope growing in his face, answered her. “Glaurung tricked me. He told me that my mother and sister suffered in thralldom in Dor-lómin, and I went to rescue them.”

Níniel laughed. This sound was different than her pained laugh of before, though equally bittersweet. “A cruel trick, when we were lately come to Doriath.” Her voice rang strangely in Finduilas’s ears, made unfamiliar by the wry humour Finduilas had never heard from her before. Níniel stretched out a trembling hand and touched Túrin’s cheek. “O brother, I am glad to see you.”

“Niënor,” said Túrin, and caught his breath in a sob. Finduilas watched in wonder as he turned his face into Níniel’s touch, his broad shoulders shaking. “Niënor, how came you here?”

“When we heard Nargothrond had fallen, Mother and I came to the city with Mablung and a company to search for you and any survivors. I was separated from Mother in the fog and gloom, and Glaurung took my memories from me.” For a moment Niënor grew pale again, remembering. Then she turned her face a little so that she could look at both Finduilas and Túrin, and smiled. “But Brandir’s men found me wandering and Finduilas healed me. And now you are here, and all will be well.”

Finduilas stared. This woman was half a stranger, confident and self-assured in a way Níniel had never been. And yet her smile was as sweet as Níniel’s, and when she tipped her head up towards Finduilas and said, “Finduilas, this is my brother,” her look was filled with the same warm affection as when they had lain together just a few hours before.   

“Yes. And you are Niënor,” Finduilas said, testing out the name. She was rewarded by a pleased look.

Niënor rose to her feet, slipping from Finduilas’s grasp, and then stretched out both hands, one to Finduilas and the other to Túrin. Both took them gladly, Túrin smiling through his tears. “Yes, I am Niënor, though my name pleases me as little as Níniel once did!" Her face glowed. "I feel as though I should be called something jubilant, for Glaurung’s trickery has failed, and the children of Húrin are at last together." Her voice rang through the hall, fierce with joy. "Let us go to Doriath.”

Túrin’s smile twisted, and for a second a shadow fell upon his face. Then it passed, and he bowed his head. “Where you go, I will follow.” His mouth trembled, and he asked, “Is Mother in Doriath?”

“Perhaps. We were separated at Nargothrond. But if she isn’t, we will find her,” Niënor said with quiet confidence. She looked to Finduilas then, and smiled. She spoke softly, pitched low so that only the three of them could hear. “Finduilas. Everything you said before you said to Níniel, but Niënor loves you just as dearly. Will you come with us?”

Tenderness caught at Finduilas. Uncaring of the watchers, uncaring that Túrin stood so close, she raised Niënor’s hand to her lips and kissed it. “I don’t know this Niënor, but I think I will love her just as well. I’ll go with you.”

Brandir cleared his throat. When Finduilas spared him a glance, his kind face was soft with puzzled happiness. “I think this is a tale that would take a while in telling,” he said, “but I’ve heard enough to know that some of Morgoth’s trickery has gone awry. I’m glad for it.” He bowed to them with care, wincing only a little. “Well met, Lady Niënor, Lord Túrin, Lady Finduilas! We shall be sorry to lose such fine company. Stay at least tonight, and tomorrow you’ll have as many supplies as we can spare.”  

“Thank you, my friend,” Túrin said, and smiled. He didn’t stop smiling as Niënor led him and Finduilas back to the table.

When they sat down again, Niënor kept Finduilas’s hand in hers. She beamed.

“All will be well,” she said again, and for the first time since Finduilas had seen Morgoth’s forces crush her home, Finduilas believed it, and rejoiced.


End file.
